An empty chair
by renrenren3
Summary: When he was a boy, Eames used to spend a lot of time in the conservatory with his family.


Written for prompt 83 (a b/w picture of some table that I can't link here) of maritombola; it's like the Italian version of bingo, only better. Yes, it's technically not a conservatory. Also I don't have a clue of what kind of plants you'd find in a conservatory, or if the windows would face west. This is one of those drabbles that went wild so it's not as if I planned it or did any research. I blame Eames. When in doubt, always blame Eames.

-x-

The conservatory is warm and filled with sunlight coming in from the huge windows facing west. It's a large room but seems smaller because the it's crammed full of flowerpots. He almost trips over a pale pink orchid on his way in, and after that he's very careful of where he puts his feet. The place smells like flowers and leaves and mud and home.

Everything is just as Eames remembers it. Which makes sense since this is his memory, or rather his dream.

There's a small round table in the conservatory, right behind the lemons. That's where he used to take his afternoon tea with his mum and his brother, all those years ago. He tries to remember when was the last time he was here. Not _here_ in the dream, _here_ at home. He can't quite remember.

He does remember which chair was his one. He pulls it back as quietly as he can, though in the quiet of the room its legs scrape against the floor quite audibly, and sits down with his back to the windows

Mum would take the chair in front of him, so she could look out at her garden. She'd always loved that garden. His kid brother would sit between the two of them and for the longest time he had needed a cushion to reach up to the table. The last chair was always empty.

Eames taps his fingers on the table, humming under his breath a nursery rhyme that he didn't think he still remembered. Funny how this place brings all kinds of memories back. They used to be here every day. Mum would ask them about their day at school and whether they'd been good and if they'd done all of their homework.

It had been then that young Eames had realized that, if he wanted to lie to someone, he'd have to become very good at it. Not that he'd ever been able to fool his mum. Not very impressive for a professional forger and he'd never admit it to anyone, but mum could always tell when he was lying through his teeth.

The memory makes him smile, though at the time the threat of not getting any of mum's scones with home-made jam was enough to send him running back to his room to get his textbooks. He wonders how many of his tells mum had noticed before he learned that blinking furiously and breaking into a sweat whenever he was lying were not ideal traits.

He doesn't want to think about that right now. He'd rather remember how there was always a small vase with a freshly-cut flower at the centre of the table. They usually ate one scone each but sometimes he'd get another one and cut it in half to share with his brother. When it rained they moved their chair next to mum's so they could all watch the soft patter of the raindrops over the garden's pond.

He's jerked out of his reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching. He looks up, puzzled, because his projections have no reason to come bothering him. Even more puzzling is why his projection of Arthur would be bothering him, and it takes Eames a second to realize that this is the real one.

"Eames," Arthur says. Definitely the real one, Eames thinks. There's no faking that attitude, that general Arthur-ness, that look he throws at Eames as if his shirt has done him a personal insult. He tries to ignore the fact that it's weird to be called 'Eames' here. Nobody ever called him that, at home.

Instead he grins, though since he is Eames and this is Arthur, halfway to his lips the grin turns somehow into a leer. "Darling," he says. "What brings you here?"

"Ariadne has finished designing the maze," Arthur replies. "She's called a meeting in five minutes' time to brief us on the details."

Eames laughs at that. "She's grown up, that's for sure," he says. "It's a good thing Cobb isn't in the business any more, she'd have upstaged him embarrassingly easily."

Arthur nods distractedly, or at least as much distractedly as Arthur ever gets. He's not looking around but Eames knows he's dying to. Arthur might call himself inquisitive, possibly saying it was something that came with the job, but Eames knows that deep down Arthur is just too damn curious.

Right now Arthur is wondering what this place is, if it's a memory, what's his significance for Eames...

Eames can almost see the little wheels turning under Arthur's perfectly slicked back hair. If Eames was a nice person he'd explain. It's no big secret, really. He could just say: this is the place where I grew up.

"It's so good of you to come and fetch me," he says instead, because he's not really a nice person. In his defence Arthur started it first, coming to prowl around in his subconscious when he only needed to kick Eames' chair to call him back.

Arthur nods, probably still baffled at having found Eames somewhere that wasn't a casino or a strip club. "Are you coming?" he asks.

"In a tic, just let me finish my tea," Eames replies, not really in any hurry to go. He's expecting Arthur to leave now that his mission is accomplished. Instead, Arthur pulls back the chair in front of Eames and makes as if to join him at the table.

"Not there," Eames says instinctively. Arthur shoots him a questioning look and Eames has to explain. "That's my mother's chair," he says sheepishly.

Arthur's probably even more baffled by the notion that Eames has a mother and didn't pop into being fully formed with the goal of driving Arthur mad, but apart from a raised eyebrow he does a good job of hiding it.

"And that's my brother's chair," Eames adds, forestalling Arthur's question. Then he nods to the chair to his right. "But that one is free."

He watches as Arthur moves around the table and sits down in the empty chair, folding his hands primly in front of him. He ought to be completely out of place in this scene, with his American accent and his neatly pressed suit, but somehow he _fits_.

If Eames wanted to be sappy, which he isn't, thank you very much, he'd say that maybe the empty chair had been Arthur's all along.

Instead he takes a clean teacup from the shelf behind him. "Tea, darling?" he asks.

(Arthur says yes but keeps defending the merits of coffee. He's partial to the scones though. They've almost finished the apricot jam when Ariadne finally loses her patience and they both abruptly wake up sprawled on the floor of the warehouse.)


End file.
